The door clicked as I locked it, my coin pouch already in my hand, the special key resting among the coins. Doubt hadn’t caught up with me yet, and I wasn’t about to give it time. One breath too many and the nerve would be gone. That much was certain.

  The window resisted for a second before the latch gave way with a sharp click. Grass sat level with the sill, damp and dark. A leg through, then the other, one last look back.

  The room beyond the glass stayed quiet, unchanged, as if waiting for sense to return. Guilt flared and reached for me. This was better. If they didn’t know, they couldn’t stop me. They couldn’t blame themselves when this little plan of mine went horribly wrong.

  I turned away and headed downhill, keeping to the edges of the path, slipping between buildings as the town thinned out. A pair of guards passed in the distance. I lowered my head, slowed my pace, became another figure moving with purpose. Someone on an errand. Someone forgettable.

  It worked.

  The castle dominated the horizon, white stone cutting into the sky. You could spot it from anywhere if you knew where to look. Jerald had warned me to stay away from it. To never approach it until I was ready.

  But circumstances had changed and I was getting desperate.

  The distance stretched longer than I wanted, the ground rising and falling beneath my boots. Still, the sword at my side bled a steady cool through my arm and into my limbs. My breathing stayed even. My legs never burned. It felt like being carried just enough to keep a good pace without tiring.

  Amelia’s voice echoed in my head. The city had more than one way in. The main gates were for traders, labourers, aspirants. People who were owned by the houses and were meant to be seen.

  The other entrances were quieter.

  Those were meant for military, exploited by nobles.

  That was where I was going.

  A grim smile pulled at my mouth.

  The one place I had no business going.

  The sword hummed softly at my side. Approval. Anticipation.

  “Remember,” I murmured, more to myself than to it. “This is just recon. I’m testing the waters.”

  “Of course,” it replied, flat and patient.

  I let out a slow breath as I walked. The view would have been beautiful if my skin hadn’t been crawling the whole time.

  The castle had been visible for miles. You couldn’t miss it. A spill of white stone against the sky, clean and deliberate, like it wanted to be seen. The lower walls were harder to make out, swallowed by rolling hills and trees that softened the approach and hid the scale until you were already too close.

  When I reached the last rise, the ground dropped away.

  A moat stretched out below, wide and dark. Still water, no ripples. I stopped short.

  Amelia’s warning surfaced immediately.

  I scanned the edge, pulse ticking faster, until I spotted it. A bridge set a little way down the slope with a yellow flag. Stone at the base, wood toward the end, leading to a raised drawbridge that disappeared into the city proper.

  That was my way in.

  I rested my hand on the hilt and pulled it free from the scabbard.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then do your thing.”

  I braced myself.

  The blade caught the light, its polished surface brightening just enough to reflect my face. The change came in a quiet rush. Heat beneath the skin. A tightening pull along my jaw. My hair lightened, colour draining until it fell pale. Freckles faded. Softness sharpened.

  The face staring back wasn’t mine anymore.

  It was Nick.

  I snorted despite myself and pulled a ridiculous expression at the reflection.

  The sword hummed. Disapproving.

  I chuckled under my breath and lifted my eyes toward the city.

  “It’s now or never.”

  I sheathed the sword and I stepped onto the bridge. It shimmered at my side, its shape settling into something refined, understated, expensive. A noble’s blade.

  “Remember,” it said, low and firm. “You must behave as he would.”

  I straightened my shoulders, adjusted my stride, and walked forward like I belonged there.

  “I know,” I muttered.

  Nick’s face came easily. Too easily. Years of it lived in my head. The smirk. The way he stood like the ground owed him something. I’d learned his habits the hard way. I could wear them if I had to.

  The bridge stretched out ahead of me, broad enough for carts to pass two abreast. Stone pillars anchored the far end, weathered but solid, while the centre span was timber laid thick and reinforced with iron bands. Footsteps echoed strangely here, swallowed by height and open air, the moat yawning dark beneath.

  I’d taken only a few steps when hurried footfalls approached from my side.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  “Sir?”

  My stomach dropped.

  I didn’t stop walking. “Yes?” I said, pitching my voice higher, sharper. Careless.

  A man fell into step beside me. Clothes worn thin. Head bowed too low to be polite. Too low to be safe.

  “Sir, could you spare a copper?” His eyes flicked up, bright with need. “Please.”

  I waved him off without looking, the motion instinctive and ugly. It was what Nick would do. The ease of it made my chest tighten.

  “Please, sir,” the man pressed. “My children…”

  The word caught.

  For a moment I saw Amelia in the streets. Cold hands. Empty eyes. The kind of hunger that doesn’t go away when you sleep.

  I stopped.

  I dug into my pouch, pulled out a coin, and tossed it back without meeting his gaze. Silver clinked against stone.

  His breath hitched. “Ah. Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

  I turned on him, letting my expression harden. “That’s so you never speak to me again. Understood?”

  His nod was frantic. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  He vanished down the bridge, clutching the coin like it might disappear if he slowed.

  I exhaled once and kept moving. Maybe the story had been a lie. Maybe not. Either way, I was about to do worse things than give a man hope.

  The drawbridge stood open ahead, chains slack. Beyond it, the gate loomed. The portcullis was raised, iron teeth hanging overhead, and a small guard station had been set to one side of the doors. There were more soldiers than I’d expected. Some on the ramparts above. Others watching from narrow arrow slits. None of them looked relaxed.

  As I approached, a pair of eyes tracked me beneath a chainmail hood.

  “Bit lost, aren’t we?” the guard said, his gaze dropping to my clothes.

  I slowed, lifted my chin, and gave him Nick’s smile.

  “Get lost,” the guard said.

  I cleared my throat.

  He shifted, hand settling on the hilt at his side, then hesitated as he looked at me. At my face. Recognition flickered.

  I stepped closer instead of backing off.

  “Watch how you speak,” I said, letting Nick’s sharpness bleed into my voice. Lazy. Cruel. Certain.

  The guard stiffened.

  “…Master?” His eyes widened. “Nickolas? What happened to you?”

  I didn’t answer straight away. I looked down at my hand instead, turning my fingers like the man in front of me barely registered.

  “Troll blood,” I said at last. “Ruined a perfectly good set of armour.” I clicked my tongue. “The commander’s having it polished. I had to borrow these off some filthy village boy I pulled out of the mess.”

  “A troll?” The word caught in his throat. A few of the other guards exchanged looks.

  “And your personal escort?” he asked, trying to steady himself.

  I gave him a slow, unimpressed look. “Still hunting. I dealt with the troll myself. I don’t need watching.”

  The guard hesitated, then dipped his head.

  I made a short, dismissive motion. “Move.”

  They did.

  Too fast. Too clean. Fear slid through the group as the name settled in, unspoken but absolute. Bedivere. Untouchable. My stomach twisted at how easily authority folded them.

  The path opened.

  I walked through.

  “Um. Master.”

  I paused.

  The guard swallowed. “Your soul card.”

  Cold washed through me.

  I’d forgotten. Proof of entry. Proof of existence.

  I turned back slowly, face blank, and raised an eyebrow.

  My mind raced.

  Then I smiled.

  I didn’t raise my voice.

  “I told you,” I said, letting impatience creep in like it belonged there. “My armour was ruined. Where do you think I keep my card?”

  The guard opened his mouth. Closed it again.

  I tilted my head, just slightly. “Do you want to be the man who delayed a Bedivere after a sanctioned hunt? Because my father will ask why I arrived late. And when he does, I will remember you.”

  The colour drained from the guard’s face. He glanced toward the others, then back at me, weighing consequences he didn’t want.

  “Exactly,” I said quietly. “Now step aside.”

  For a few heartbeats, no one moved. The chains creaked overhead. Somewhere, water lapped against stone.

  Then the guard shifted out of my way. “Just this once,” he muttered. “I’ll… let it slide.”

  I gave a short nod and walked through the gate.

  I felt their eyes on my back until I turned the corner. The next set of guards watched me pass without comment. Whatever story had reached them had already done its work.

  Only then did I breathe out.

  The tension left me all at once, replaced by something sharp and electric.

  I was inside.

  A few steps more and the heavy wooden doors opened onto something I hadn’t prepared for.

  Light flooded in first. Not the sterile glare I’d imagined, but a warm spill that bounced off white stone and painted plaster, catching on carved arches and sweeping facades that rose higher than anything outside the walls. The buildings weren’t uniform. They were massive, yes, but shaped by hands rather than decree. Balconies curved instead of squared. Pillars flared with engraved runes that pulsed faintly as people passed beneath them. Vines clung to the stone as if they’d been invited there, flowers bursting from window boxes and terraces high above the street.

  The air struck me full in the chest.

  Fresh bread and hot sugar. Sharp herbs crushed underfoot. Oil and worked wood. Warm iron ringing under hammer blows somewhere deeper in the district. Threads of magic laced through it all, subtle but everywhere. Runes etched into stalls to keep cloth dry. More hummed under carts to ease the weight of stone and metal. Sparks of colour flaring briefly as a jeweller tested an enchantment, then fading back into the noise.

  I’d chosen the right entrance.

  The street surged with people. Workers arguing prices. Apprentices darting between stalls with bundles under their arms. Craftsmen leaned over benches set right into the street, tools moving with practiced rhythm. Laughter cut through the noise. So did shouting. It felt earned.

  I let myself be carried with the flow, bodies brushing past, shoulders bumping mine without apology. I stood out immediately. My clothes were wrong. Too plain. Too worn. The looks came quick and shallow, skimming over me and moving on. No one bothered to meet my eyes. In a place this busy, attention was currency, and I hadn’t paid for it.

  A shop window caught my eye as I passed.

  Tailored coats hung within, cut sharp and confident, fabrics that drank in the light instead of reflecting it. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Just quality that didn’t need to announce itself.

  I slowed, then slipped inside.

  A bell chimed overhead.

  A thin man crouched by a mannequin, needle flashing as he worked. He didn’t look up, too intent on his stitching. I circled the room, taking in the racks of men’s clothing. No price tags. Nothing marked.

  The tailor cleared his throat.

  Still sewing, he gave me a sidelong glance.

  “Do I need to call the guards?” the tailor said without looking up.

  I let out a short laugh. “For what? I’m here to buy.”

  He finally raised his head. His eyes flicked over me once, then sharpened.

  “…Nickolas?” His brows lifted. “What in the seven hells are you wearing, my boy?”

  I gave him the same story I’d given the guards. Ruined armour. Troll blood. Borrowed clothes. I told it like it was an inconvenience, nothing more.

  His eyes widened. Then his mouth split into a grin he didn’t bother hiding.

  “A troll?” he said, almost reverent. “Gods above.” He shook his head, impressed. “You Bediveres never do things small.”

  He set his needle aside with care and stood, smoothing his apron as if he’d just been summoned rather than interrupted. He circled me once, slower now, eyes flicking over shoulders, sleeves, posture.

  “I still have your measures,” he said. “Chest, arm, neck. They do change so much at your age.” His fingers hovered, then tapped the air. “You’ll want a proper day coat. Wool for structure, linen beneath. Dark enough for the street, clean enough for council eyes.”

  I nodded. “How long?”

  “An hour,” he said without hesitation. “Two if you want embroidery kept subtle.” He waved me toward the door, already reaching for chalk. “Go eat. You look thin. When you come back, we’ll fit it properly.”

  I thanked him and stepped back into the street.

  The coins in my pouch would be enough for food. The clothes were handled differently. No exchange of silver. No prices spoken aloud. The tailor would note the order, record the name, and bill it to the Bedivere account as he always had. That was how it worked here. Nobles didn’t pay as they went. They were paid for.

  Amelia had been right.

  The tailor’s expression lingered with me as I walked away. Not suspicion. Not caution.

  Recognition.

  And that recognition was leverage.

  I intended to exploit it.